Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Hazy Sun

Monday, May 30, 2011

MM 30 May 2011


  1. Franz Ferdinand - Sexy Boy
  2. Electric Six - Radio Gaga
  3. Velvet Revolver - Mary Mary
  4. Alice in Chains - Damn that River
  5. Gackt - Mirror
  6. The Strokes - Reptilia

Monday, May 23, 2011

MM 23 May 2011

Monday Morning 23 May 2011 Track List
  1. Heaven Can Wait—Sandra
  2. Two of Hearts—Stacey Q
  3. Somebody to Love Me—Mark Ronson
  4. Atomic—Blondie
  5. Blinded Me with Science—Thomas Dolby
  6. Lass Uns Tanzen—Scooter
  7. 100% Pure Love—Crystal Waters
  8. Move This—Technotronic

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Change is in the Wind

It’s been a while. Approximately a year since I came back to my hometown to kind of find myself, yeah let’s go with find myself. Ten months is a good benchmark to ramble about life-changing events, so it’s time for a ramble. I don’t talk about it, but it was brutal. Sometimes I over-think things and other times I don’t think of things enough. That [which happened] may or may not be the worst time of my life. There’s nothing more disheartening to over-working and bearing no fruit to your labors. It just fucks with you. Eight, nine, 10 hours of your life gone in a heartbeat, a week turns into a six-month coma, and your life never fucking returns to normal.

That’s what happened, the long nights turned into long weeks, and the person that my peers knew and loved slowly faded into the summer heat and evening humidity. Thus, I had to find myself because without knowing, I depended on this strong, super creative persona that handled a million and one tasks in one week. Now, I can juggle around two million. But, that’s not the point, it’s all about change. I’ve learned so much in the past year, edited, wrote, and experienced a new side to “Virtual Business” that I’m confident that the next time I over-work and bear no fruit to my labor I won’t retreat to a black hole.

Black holes aren’t fun. They’re destructive, unproductive, and futile magical thinking attempts that try to blank out all reality. Delusions don’t work as good. Friends, freedom, and happiness are schoolbook concepts. The money you spend on frivolities can be used to spend on necessities. Life isn’t fair, the cunning and clever will eat the worm, cheese, and bury the birds. Nobody wants to hear your problems, nobody cares if your dog dies, if your intestines burst, or if you’re brain momentarily forgets your geological location on this Earth. It’s a cannibalistic world, you rise in the morning work, retreat to your home, and reproduce offspring to take your place in this world.

Sounds like a fantastic black hole to me. There’s nothing better than shooting chemicals one huff, sip, crunch, or injection at a time to compensate for our lack of happiness in this world. But what if the chemicals don’t work? One liter of rum doesn’t fill the void of misery, two blocks out memories, and three can send you packing on dialysis. This is eight times more fun while you demote yourself as a human in your brain... It’s time for a fucking promotion. Grab a time machine and blast out of your senses, plan your escape, and get the fuck out. It’s now or never. No one is going to sit around babysitting you; you are your parent. Change is in the wind, OD while you can.

Monday, May 16, 2011

the killing game

justice is a transparent dress
killing terrorists to the cheer
of one nation; ring leaders
don this dress to kill thousands
at the shake of one building
in the name of justice, too

justice, one of the many dresses
worn to kill; death by revenge;
death by hate; death by lust;
death by abortion: Death, the
only comfort of being killed...
but no one cheers for suicide

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Watermelon Dream

Actually looks nicer in photo, more vibrant.

La Vida Es Asi

The stinging, merciless sound of the black alarm clock woke Victor Juarez from his empty dreams at exactly 5:00AM. Victor slapped the snooze button, turned around, and fell back into an empty sleep. The old-fashioned alarm clock rang again at 5:09AM, as programmed. Victor shook his body into motion, slapped the alarm clock, and walked in a disgruntled shuffle to the bathroom.

He lazily relieved himself as he scratched his head. He dropped his tattered boxers onto the peeling floor, walked the two steps into the shower, and spread the aging shower curtain along the rusted bar, the old hooks made shrieking noises. He paid no heed, as he turned the old weary knobs and the water splashed on his old body.

The sounds of the shower filled the bathroom, his one bedroom trailer home, and the thoughtless feeling in his brain. He dressed in his black Dickies, white shirt, brown shoes, and blue cap. He drove up 10th street, past West Military Highway, and into the city. Some mornings he arrived at the Circle K gas station on 10th and 83 around 5:45AM other mornings he arrived a couple of minutes earlier. But, the routine stayed the same day after day, 69 cents for one black coffee.
Day after day, Victor walked into Denny’s, put on his work shirt from his locker, and resumed his post in the dish room. He would inspect the previous shift’s dishes, making sure each plate squeaked and each glass shimmered. Only after he found the dishes ‘clean,’ did Victor grab his second cup of coffee.
“Morning Victor!” Annette, the young black-haired waitress said with a big grin, as she walked over to the employee coffee station.

“Mrhmph,” He greeted, nodded his head, and took his coffee to the other side of the room.

Victor went through his day, exchanging small grunts here and there, until he was done with work. He would then leave his work shirt in his locker, stop by Circle K, pick up some dinner tacos, a 44 oz coke, and go home. Once at home, he kicked off his shoes in the corner behind the doorway, his socks always stay two feet from his shoes.

He sat on the loveseat, clicks the TV on, ate his dinner, and watched television. He watched the last few minutes of Primer Impacto, the local news, the world news all while eating his dinner. He sipped on his 44 oz coke for the first ten minutes of the novela and at the next commercial he got up to throw his trash into the blue-basket-turned-trash can. He then sat back on the couch until the novela at seven finished.

Just a typical day for Victor, he hated his job and patiently waited for the next Friday. In general, Fridays meant no work for two days. He could blissfully ignore the alarm clock for two days. He could neglect his morning coffee and go straight for a shot of tequila that he kept on the loveseat. Yes, like every weekday worker, Victor looked forward to Fridays.

However, Victor looked forward to this next Friday like if it was the best Friday in the universe. That Thursday evening before that anticipated Friday, Victor sat on his loveseat, ate his dinner, and watched television. He couldn’t help the excitement running through his body that he had to constantly change the channel while his toes wiggled simultaneously.

On Friday morning, Victor jumped out of his jittering dreams and out of his bed exactly at 5:00AM. Victor skipped to the bathroom, amazed that his body remembered the childish shuffle. He dressed in his black Dickies, white shirt, and black shoes. His nicer shoes for special occasions.

He packed a Circle K bag with his tequila and a nice shirt, and then he got into his car. He drove up 10th street into the city. He bought his black coffee and 98-cent breakfast taco before heading to work. He didn’t inspect the dishes that morning and went straight to his second cup of coffee.

“Morning, Victor.” Annette said with her usual grin.

“Buenos dias!” Victor replied as he handed her a coffee cup.

“Good day today, mister Juarez?” she asked as she helped herself to some coffee.

“Siempre, nińa.” He said, nodded, and went to the dish room.

Annette smiled as he left, his reply ‘always child,’ gave her hope.

Victor went through the day exchanging smiles y saludos. At the end of the day, he changed into his nice shirt. He stopped at Circle K for his dinner and drove down 10th street past West Military Highway. He turned onto Balli Canal Road where he parked his car alongside the canal.

He ate his tacos in the front seat, mixing his tequila with his 44oz coke. He sipped on his 44 oz coke as the sun set. The colors illuminating the canal with every hope and dream he ever had. He turned his car back on, hit the gas pedal, and drove off to catch his dreams.

Just another

you're just another poem
a moment in this time and
space continuim until time
lapses and the mirrors change
direction; warped angels sing
sorrowfully for their mishapped
moments and you remain the
poem; momentary muse

Friday, May 13, 2011

the killing game

justice is a transparent dress
killing terrorists to the cheer
of one nation; ring leaders
don this dress to kill thousands
at the shake of one building
in the name of justice, too

justice, one of the many dresses
worn to kill; death by revenge;
death by hate; death by lust;
death by abortion: Death, the
only comfort of being killed...
but no one cheers for suicide

Speak now, or

Don't linger too long with your intentions
The rolling stone doesn't stay long to
Savor the moss, fruits, or lands
Don't waste your breath for a savory
intention; the free, flying butterfly
isn't staying for dinner

Thursday, May 12, 2011

Worry Medicine

gray skies and dazed hearts
polarized moutains of gold
music blearing through side doors
break the door and do an irish jig
hollering and laughter
windows crash and light
radiates through the neighborhood
laughter consumes every soul
one muscle speaks to the other
in a matter of seconds they're
all dancing their worries away

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Her Eyes See Meaning

her eyes are the color of deception
if beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder
than to her i'm nothing but jades
refracting the light of the ocean
through a telescope lens
and her eyes are delicate rubies
extrapolating meaning from my ramblings
but i shouldn't ramble
not when her lips as soft as nurture
and rumble all through my skin
just for me; even if her eyes deceive

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Feliz Dia de las Madres

Ma; tu eres la segunda person
Que escogí para amar el moment cuando
Los ruidos y sensaciones llovieron
Sobre mi ser en mis primeros momentos.
Ma; eres la mas mejor
Aunque mi ropa no hacen juego,
Mi comida sabe amarga;
Especialmente ese fatal arroz!
Ma; mereces todas las riquezas
Que no puedo comprar y todas
las flores conocidas ante Dios
Solo tengo mi amor para dar te

[Mother's Day falls on the 10th in Mexico. This isn't a strict translation of the Spanish one, but a formal translation of the sentiments to Spanish.]

Monday, May 9, 2011

The Mexican

Economists might be able to prove,
that yes in fact, Mexicans survive on
Salsa. Perhaps, they might even
conclude that Mexicans survive on
Tequila, Aguacate, Limon, y Sal.
No me crees? Me neither; Mexicans
are notorious liars and some folks
call fiction lies. It's all lies; all lies.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Happy Mother's Day

Mother; you are the second
Person I linked and joined hands
With as the noises and senses
Overwhelmed me in my first hours.
Mother; you are the best
Even if I can never match my clothes,
Or if my cooking never tastes as
Great as yours; especially that one
Time I made that awful rice!
Mother; you deserve all the riches
I can't afford right now and all the
Flowers known to Man; I can't give
You much but all the love I have.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Delete Selected

Dozens of poems
Hundreds of unfinished poems
Thousands of lovely thoughts
Millions of wishes
Eternity of madness
No; Nothing in this world
Can be deleted that way
But, if it could
Oh, if it could
The dread would end

Friday, May 6, 2011


She sat in the middle room
Three glass windows to her right,
To her left, and behind her
A 19-inch television played VH1
Some countdown show
With cheesy camera tricks
For popular garbage and music
She sat at a desk her hands on a pen,
The sheets of the 70-page 20-cent
Notebook lay torn, disheveled,
But oh so loved
Each page contained hidden thoughts,
Bewildered emotions that lay hidden
In the lined sheets; no matter how
Many people stared at her through the glass

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Until I Woke Up

I was a figment of my imagination
Smoking the last flints of sanity
Through two tired and numb fingers

I was a figment of my sanity
Drinking the last sips of generosity
Through a broken bright orange straw

I was a figment of generosity
Sniffing the last draw of fate
Until I woke up, my muse is gone

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

The Dew of a Carnation

He hears the wind giggle, the smooth wings of the butterfly embracing the elusive being. He feels the wind grace upon his hands, he feels the warmth of her hands, and he can’t help but to feel at piece with the thoughts meandering in him. He hears a slow humming of words, the humming of his conscious, of his rationality, of the calculations running through his head, and he smiles on the inside at the phrases and codes that dance. Then, he hears nothing. A dull, bleak, instant wipes through his being and he’s no longer in the clearing.

But, his hands still hold hers. “Where are we?” A small fear lines his voice.

“We’re here.” She exclaims and holds his hands tighter. “You can open your eyes now.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “If I open my eyes I might regret it.”

“You won’t! How could you say that?” She lets go of his hands. “You can’t be so selfish, you won’t regret anything!” She walks a couple of steps away from him, he hears the rustle of flowers and then he feels something cold on his hands.

“Sarey! Sarey!” He opens his eyes and stares at his hands. He moves them, shakes them, but there’s nothing on them. “Sarey!” He looks around, trying to find a trace of her warmth, of her.

“You’re not going to find her here.” Says a voice behind him.

“Who are you!” He turns around to see a lone figure, dressed in black. He takes a step back, noticing that this place isn’t at all the clearing. It’s empty! Beyond empty! It’s like a lonely gray covered land where the light radiates as shadows varying from black to light gray.

“That’s exactly what it is.” The man replies.

“You!” He stares at the man and around him. “You can hear my thoughts?”

“No.” The man waves his hand in the air, “this is my land. There are no barriers between thoughts and what you say.” The man tilts his head to the side, “no boundaries. At this point what you think you say or what you call thoughts are one and the same.”

He shakes his head, this man is crazy. Where did Sarey run off to, and why leave him here with… with…

“I’m Den.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.” He paces from shadow to shadow.

“You must be Jove.” He stops walking.

“Who told you that?”

“She did. She tells me everything.”

“Of course.” He looks around hoping that she would appear. Maybe jump behind him and cry “I’m here!” No such luck.

“Of course.” Den nods and the shadows turn to a light grey. “She won’t just reappear. It’s easier to disappear than reappear, you must know that from your world?” Jove shakes his head. “That’s how your world works.” Den points at Jove. “In any case you have to find her.”

“Find her?” But, she’s the one that brought him here. Jove exhales.

“How else did you want to leave?”

Jove grins and points at Den. “You can help me!”

“You don’t want my help.”

“Why? You know your way out, right?”

Den chuckles and a black as charcoal chair appears, he takes a seat, and crosses his legs. Jove just stared amazed, black chair, light grey background, black slacks, black button shirt, and dark brown hair. Still, somehow Jove can see the outlines of the fabric as sharp as a day.

“I only know one way out.” Den grins, “technically if you follow me you’ll die. But, last time she visited she showed me this other place. Of course, I forgot how to get there. I was hoping she’d take me again, but she brought you along.”

“Stop!” The air around Jove freezes his body. “I don’t want to follow you.” Jove gasps for air. “I’ll find her myself.”

“Great,” Den stands up and the chair disappears. “Where to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know where we are. Where are we?”

“In the void.”

“Is there a map?”

“Map? Good question.” A table appears along with a silver box. “Key.” Den asks as if Jove has a key.

“What key? I’ve never seen this.”

“You’re the chosen one. You must have the key.” Den stares at Jove.

“Listen.” He pauses and rolls his eyes. “Den, I only know how I got here. We were holding hands, we got quiet, and then we were here… or somewhere like here. Then she let go of my hands and disappeared.”

Den stares at his hands and offers them to Jove. “What! No!” Jove groans. “I’m not holding your hands!”

Den stares at his hands. “Maybe not my hands, but the box?” He motions for Jove to step forward.

Jove walks toward the table. He cautiously taps the black wood with his forefinger, wondering how it could be so sturdy. He eyes the box with precaution. Maybe, it’s like Pandora’s box, and he shouldn’t touch it, he wonders. He looks at his hands and remembers Sarey’s soft Earth brown hands. He smiles thinking of how warm her hands were; he places both hands on the box. Surprisingly, the box isn’t cold, it’s warm like Sarey’s hands. The box trembles for a split second and the lid opens a few centimeters.

It opened for better or for worse. Den nods at Jove and Jove opens the lid. Inside the box sparkles, it sparkles with every gem in the world. Like the embroidered tablecloth he had sat on earlier, millions of patterns lined the box. Elegant patterns, boisterous patterns, made of every color in the world. Jove reaches inside the box and the box unfolds onto the table like a long parchment.

“It really is a map.” Den exclaims as he leans over the table. “No it’s no use.” Den murmurs.

“No use?” Jove stares at the map, the words look familiar but they’re different somehow. “What language is this?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

Jove brings a finger over a place on the map and a ray of heat touches his finger. “This map radiates heat.”

“It’s her love.” Den nods and stares at the point on the map. “I can’t read what it says, but that’s where we have to go.”

“Is she there?” Den shakes his head.

“She might. Close your eyes and keep your finger there.” Jove closes his eyes and sighs. Den stares at the map, the pattern changes around and wavers into a single carnation. “Don’t open your eyes.” Den gently places his hand on Jove’s hand.

Jove flinches but doesn’t open his eyes or move his hand. This hand, it’s more than cold, it’s so cold that it’s numb. It’s not human, not alive.

“Sorry,” Den says, but before he could continue the map changes into a carnation, the light grey around them turns to blue, and grass sits underneath their feet.

“It said carnations,” didn’t it Jove says as he stares at the floating carnation.

“No it said something about love.” Den kneels onto the floor, Jove laughs. The black clothing doesn’t fit in with the place at all.

“Where are we?” Jove stops laughing as he sees Den’s sour expression.

“We’re lost.”


“There are no carnations here at all.” Den waves his hand around. Jove stares at the endless sea of green.

“Call the map?”

Den shakes his head. “This isn’t my place now.”

Jove sits next the floating carnation and grabs onto the grass. “There’s the floating carnation,” Jove says after a while.

“I doubt it’s real.” Den sighs.

“Of course it’s real.” Jove says and reaches for it. His hand graces the carnation and a drop of dew falls onto his face. He smiles, uncontrollably as if the dew was Saray’s hands holding him and telling him of her love for him. Like the dew of a carnation, her love is pure, beautiful, and fascinating.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Osama Bin Laden

Oh, politics. I waited till now to write about the ruthless execution of Mr. Osama Bin Laden on Sunday (US Sunday). I sat on my desk, turned up my trusted streaming sites and watched as President Barack Obama spewed poetry in an uncentered screen, the angle making the room look like the corner of a great hall, the shadow of a great hall.

President Barack Obama poeticized, glamorized, and relayed the message:

Osama Bin Laden is dead.
Osama Bin Laden is dead.
Something something.
Something something.
Something something.
Osama Bin Laden is dead.
Osama Bin Laden is dead.
This is not a war against Islam.
This is not a war against Islam.
No civilians got hurt.
Just a woman who served as his shield.
Just a woman who served as his shield.
Just a woman who served as his shield.
God bless America.
God bless America.
God bless America.

I couldn’t help but being disgusted. Our nation, yeah that’s right OUR NATION, stood behind the execution of two men and that reciprocal is biting our ass like a rabid dog.

DERA ISMAIL KHAN: The Pakistani Taliban threatened attacks against government leaders, including President Asif Ali Zardari, the Pakistan army and the United States on Monday, after the killing of Osama bin Laden in the country.

“Now Pakistani rulers, President Zardari and the army will be our first targets. America will be our second target,” Ehsanullah Ehsan, a spokesman for Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP), or Taliban Movement of Pakistan, told Reuters by telephone from an undisclosed location.

Source: Dawn.com

MM 2 MAY 2011

Apparently, Grooveshark is going through 'changes' and widgets may not be available. This won't deter my Monday Morning playlist.

Track List

  1. Get It On - T. Rex
  2. Jamie's Crying - Van Halen
  3. Dame Dame - Moderatto
  4. Smoking in the Boys Room - Motley Crue
  5. Your Mama Don't Dance - Poison
  6. Cherry Pie - Warrant
  7. Hand Me Down World - Tesla
  8. Heard It on the X - ZZ Top
  9. Rocket Queen - Guns N' Roses
  10. Strange World - Iron Maiden
  11. Leather Boys with Electric Toyz - Pretty Boy Floyd

Sunday, May 1, 2011

May Story a Day

Last month was National Poet's month and I wrote a poem everyday (OK that's a lie I skipped the last 4 days)... starting this month there's a May Story A Day thing going on in the online-writer's circle. I'm going to do it. I made an outline of how the story is going to go and since I'm also trying to not write heartache poems about my recent heartache I'm trying to write lovely things. Read Story No 1.

The first story in the series is a surprise from my muse. Muses are like that, always surprising. The next stories will be centered on an element (flower or gemstone) and a “short” journey to either another element or another place in this ‘world’ I call my personal retreat. Everyone has personal retreats, paradises, mine is just mystical. I don’t have names for the characters yet, as the names have to be perfect!, but I’ll make it easy to remember who-is-who.

Like a Butterfly

He sat on the embroidered tablecloth. The golden and turquoise patterns recreating his life. He crossed one leg, the denim of his pants streaking like the rays of the aurora on the endless sky. He stared at his watch, counting the seconds until he could hear his heart beat faster than his watch.

The light sounds of her feet on the white tiles take his mind off the time. He gets off the table, straightens his polo, and puts his hands on his hips.

“Thirty minutes.” He exaggerates.

“Down to the last second?” She walks to him, her bare feet caressing the white tiles, her long fuchsia skirt gracing the air around her.

“Absolutely!” He consults his watch.

“You lie,” she giggles and takes his hand into hers. “Are you ready?” She stares at his feet.

“Of course. I’ve been waiting for this the whole week.”

“Lose the shoes.” He rolls his eyes and kicks his shoes off. “Socks.” He let’s go of her hand leans down and pulls his socks off.


“Like a butterfly.” She doesn’t wait for him to straighten up, she grabs his hand, and runs towards the veranda.

They run out and down the spiraling staircase that leads to her secret paradise. They run past the garden, past the marbled pathways, and behind the forest. They run until he stops, his feet hurting from the ground. He sits on the floor and massages his soles.

“Don’t fret.” She kneels in front of him. He catches the free spirit in her eyes, and it makes him worry less. Her amber eyes are truly his protectors. “Are you ok?” She asks as she leans forward; he can almost feel the intricate pattern on her shirt. How he’d like to touch the patterns to know the mysteries of her heart.

“Perfect.” He responds quickly and stands up.

“Great!” She jumps to her feet, grabs his hands, and pulls him as they run into the clearing behind the forest. They run until he can see a small path with jades and emeralds leading the way.

“Is this it?” He calls as he stares at the ground.

“No.” She looks at him and grins. “This is just the beginning.” She places a finger on his lips. “You have to quiet down all your thoughts.” She begins. “Then, you’ll be able to enter.”

“Right.” He looks at her and then around the clearing. “So we are here.”

“No, not yet.” She laughs and holds his hands. “Just, be quiet.”

He grimaces as he hears a fly near his ear and she giggles. “Quiet, I’m trying to concentrate.” She smiles and grabs his hands, as the wind flutters around their ears. Their bodies calm, their spirits even, they break into the universal existence. Their love is like the flicker of a butterfly as it springs into the wind.